


Blaze of Glory

by oceaxe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon compliant for now, First Time, Glory Holes, M/M, inspired by a tweet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22797901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Dean’s done this before, many times. He’s not proud of it, but he’s real familiar with the smell of places like this, the feel of the floor on his knees, the dank and the dark. And the need, of course, because that’s where it all stems from.Need.He needs a dick in his mouth. The other guys? Need his lips around them. It’s a win-win, if you can call this winning.(We could call this "Lazarus...uh... Rising")
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 45
Kudos: 119





	1. Lazarus...uh... rising

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. 
> 
> This is not a story I planned to write. I haven't written smut in AGES. 
> 
> But there was this tweet, see? An angry bibro said "This season was supposed to be a "A Blaze of Glory," not a god damned Destiel Glory Hole!" 
> 
> So here's your "Blaze of Destiel Glory Hole," sweetheart. Enjoy.
> 
> (Canon AU, alternate way for Dean and Cas to meet)

Dean’s done this before, many times. He’s not proud of it, but he’s real familiar with the smell of places like this, the feel of the floor on his knees, the dank and the dark. And the need, of course, because that’s where it all stems from.

Need.

He needs a dick in his mouth. The other guys? Need lips around their cocks. It’s a win-win, if you can call this winning. 

The door opens and footsteps echo in the dim room. Dean can smell him, almost, sharp ozone and musk, like someone got stuck in a rainstorm and also forgot how to bathe. It’s feral, exciting. He hopes, as always, that he doesn’t get anything from this rando, but if that were his main concern, he wouldn’t be here.

“Hello?” The voice is deep and rough with disuse. Dean sits up a little on his knees, clearing his throat. He doesn’t like to say anything in these places, doesn’t want someone to recognize his voice later on. He just got back from Hell- somehow. With nothing to show for it but a livid handprint-shaped burn scar on his shoulder. The last thing he needs is more scars inflicted by some self-hating queer redneck.

“Are you in here?” Dude, this guy must be a moron, Dean thinks. Or he’s never done this before. An electric thrill shoots up his spine as that thought settles in. A virgin. And he’s got a hot voice. Dean knocks on the metal wall. He hears the guy come closer. He wants to say “warm, warmer, hot,” but again. Can’t risk it. 

“I need you,” the man says, and he’s right there, in the stall next to where Dean waits. This particular location, in benighted, homophobic Pontiac, Illinois, has an official room for the person behind the hole, the giver of glory. He doesn’t have to worry about someone barging into the neighboring stall, and maybe it’s that fact that makes Dean let loose with a chuckle. It’s just funny; the guy’s voice is so ponderously serious. “I need you.” _Yeah, buddy, we all need our cocks sucked some time. It’s not the end of the world._

“Are you… are you laughing?” 

Dean abruptly feels bad. Towns like these are a hell-scape for people like him, men who dig other men. He doesn’t need to make it worse. He figures he’s not planning to pass through again anytime soon, so he says, “Naw, man, sorry. Just got something in my throat. Be nice to have your cock down my throat instead.” 

There, that should speed things up. His knees are killing him. This guy sounds tall, to judge from where his voice seems to be emanating. Hopefully he’s got a nice, big, fat-

“My what?” 

_Oh god, you’ve gotta be kidding me._

“Your cock. You know, the thing between your legs? Give it to me.”

He hears the soft rustling of fabric and an “Oh.” If the guy didn’t sound about 35, Dean’d be worried he was dealing with a kid. As it is, the dude’s obvious lack of experience is really doing it for Dean, apparently. His own cock is near full-mast already.

“So I should…” the man trails off, and Dean hears a belt clank and a zipper undone. It seems to take forever. “How do I, um, 'give' it to you?” 

Dean sticks two fingers through the hole, rolling his eyes but grinning. “Through here, man. I’ll make it real good.” He can really smell him now, pungent and heady. If he weren’t worried about being recognized on his way out to his car, he’d be sneaking a peek. Just to see what he'll be working with.

“Why?” 

Why? Is this guy for real? Maybe he doesn't think anyone could enjoy giving bjs to strangers. 

“Because I like it,” he says, pitching his voice low and sultry. The kind of voice that turns straight guys into curious guys, and curious guys into sure things. He never thought he’d have to seduce anyone at a fucking glory hole, but such is life. “I like putting cocks in my mouth and going to town.”

“To town? We’re already in a town.”

Jesus, this guy must be a refugee from a cult or something. Dean can’t help it now, he leans forward and cranes his neck awkwardly to get a look through the crude aperture. First he sees a trench coat over dark suit trousers. Businessman, okay. Not a naive teenager. Phew. His gaze travels up to a… jiminy christmas, a fucking huge cock. Uncut. Not quite hard but holy shit. And then further up, he gets a glimpse of a confused face, the face of an angel. Blue eyes, full lips, flushed cheeks, mussed hair. The guy looks like he literally just had sex, what is he doing _here?_

Dean backs away from the hole, head spinning. He’s gotta get that dick in his mouth. 

“Just put your cock here,” he says, patience wearing thin but forcing his voice smooth. “I promise I’ll be nice.” 

“Alright,” the man says, and the head of a very, very nice cock makes an appearance in front of Dean’s face, framed by the roughly circular cut-out in the wall, edges covered in frayed duct tape. He waits for more to come through, but it stays put. 

So he leans forward to coax it in, like a shy creature doubting its welcome. His lips kiss the crown, his tongue sneaking out just a tiny bit to greet the slit. Good lord, it tastes incredible. It’s been too long since Dean’s done this. Slick and salty and just right. This is just what he needs to ground him. Humanity, in all its glorious physicality. Hell had been a little too heavy on the corruption, not heavy enough on the filth. 

“Mmmmnggh,” he sighs around the tip, licking the underside. He hears a groan and a thump against the wall as the guy obviously loses his balance. The cock slides in towards Dean, six or seven inches of it, now hard. He tongues it, slurping kisses along the shaft.

“That’s… yes, that’s very…. Nice,” the man stutters, sounding overwhelmed. Dean’s eyes flutter shut. He loves this, loves giving pleasure. He's spent too much of his life giving and receiving pain. He takes the length of the flesh before him inside his mouth, sucking and sucking, pulling off to kiss and lick around the head before taking it all in again. 

Over and over he does this, reveling in the sounds the stranger is making, keening noises careening out of control. Then he starts softly babbling, almost sounding like another language. Oh, _that_ explains it. He’s not American. No wonder he's seemed so out of place. Dean feels like an idiot. Well, the best way to make up for it is to make sure he never forgets this experience. He brings his hand up to where the cock is gently thrusting through the hole and coaxes it forward, until he can get his fingers through the hole a little to stroke at the balls. 

“Oh, good Lord,” the man cries, and the cock gives an unholy twitch in Dean’s mouth. Dean moans and continues to contort his hand so that he can stroke and pet the guy’s taut ballsack, covered in soft hair. He can taste copious precum down the back of his throat and knows he’s close.

“Ah, that’s…. That’s…. Oh God, please... you're so.... this is so good…” 

The words dissolve into desperate panting; he can tell the other man is slumped against the wall, pleasure completely overtaking him.

Dean finds that he’s enjoying this session so much; it's so different from most times, where the guy just grunts or says gross, demeaning things. This feels better; this feels like he’s doing good, he’s doing so well. He’s doing the right thing, no matter how sleazy it might seem to the good, upstanding, gay-bashing citizens of Pontiac.

He takes the cock, gorgeous thing that it is, all the way down his throat, breathing hard through his nose to keep it there, choking him. He swallows twice and the spasms of orgasm wrack through the man, through his dick, come gushing down Dean’s throat like a benediction. 

“Thank you, Dean,” the man says, and Dean reels back so fast he hits his head on the wall behind him. Hard.

“How’d you know my….” he hears himself ask feebly as the already dim light fades further. His adrenaline spikes but it’s not enough to keep him alert. 

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and-” the man’s voice says, but that’s all Dean gets before he blacks out.


	2. A devout man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel reviews his options and decides to let Dean make the next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. I appear to have written another chapter.

“Dean?” he asks, unsure what's happened. Did someone come in? Is Dean in trouble? There's no response. He lowers himself to peer through the opening in the wall and sees Dean slumped against the opposite wall, eyes closed, skin waxy. Castiel can't reach him from here; there's no adjoining door between the spaces. He listens for a heartbeat. There it is, thump-thumping in the way his own newly-acquired heart is. Bodily functions are distractingly concrete and he becomes a bit disoriented from all the input of information: chemical reactions, a flood of sensations. 

“Dean,” he repeats, then realizes that the man’s alpha waves have increased and are gradually being overtaken by theta waves. He’s asleep. Knocked unconscious, most likely from the impact Castiel heard. There are no other noises, no other presences. The noise must have been Dean hitting his head somehow. 

He looks around, then down. His… cock, Dean had called it, and yes, that’s a word that Jimmy knows, is still hanging out in the open, not quite flaccid. Damp with Dean’s saliva. He can’t comprehend why Dean wanted to do that, and he’s reluctant to access Jimmy’s memory banks for information. His missions have never called on him to become familiar with this aspect of human existence. Obviously he’s aware that this is somewhere on the spectrum of sexual behavior, but he has no idea why Dean was here. And it is clear that Dean has no idea what Castiel was doing, looking for him. Or who Castiel is, despite his attempts to introduce himself. 

Dean. Still unconscious. He exits the stall, looks for the entrance to where Dean must be. He can’t find it. He stops and puts his “cock” back into the underwear, zips up and re-buckles the belt. The whole process is so time-consuming and awkward. He pities the humans for their dependence on these forms, until the storm of pleasure he just experienced recalls itself to his mind. His vessel is still producing hormones that have him struggling to keep track of his mission, wanting to float him away on waves of well-being. 

Nothing he’s ever felt, to the extent that angels feel anything, has _ever_ been like that. At one and the same time, it explains much of humanity that has long been a puzzle to him, and opens up an expansive horizon of questions, ones that he can’t even begin to put words to. 

He goes into the main part of the truck stop, looks for the woman he saw on his way in. He questions her, both of them suffering through his ignorance and lack of the nuance of communication. At last he manages to make it clear to her what he’s asking. Nevertheless, his efforts earn him only a blank look. He resorts to placing his hands on her cranium, learning the answer with a brief rifle through her memory. 

*

A short flight later, Dean, his mission, his charge, is with his kin. Castiel knows that he’s failed the first step of his mission, failed miserably considering that he hadn't even managed to introduce himself fully. But he can’t bring himself to regret the urge he’d felt to do as Dean had asked, as mistaken as it had turned out to be.

Dean is the righteous man; the things he wants can’t be wrong. 

Castiel must see him again. Must make himself known. Although he suspects Dean will have a negative reaction to seeing him again. It can’t be helped. 

Or can it? 

He considers taking a new vessel. On the one hand, Dean’s obvious dismay at meeting in that manner might complicate matters. On the other hand, he thinks, looking at his other hand, at least this time Dean will know two things about him. One, he does as he is requested; he can be trusted to give Dean whatever is required. Two, he did not harm Dean while he was out of commission. He took the human to his family, quickly and without allowing further harm to befall him. 

This vessel is strange, not like some others he’s taken in millenia past. Perhaps it’s because, as Jimmy said to him when he welcomed him in, he was a “hardcore sinner back in the day, a real hedonist.” It, the body that is, seems fixedly attuned to pleasures of the flesh. Castiel finds himself looking at other humans, drawn to things about them that his angel nature can’t discern. He dimly foresees complications, distractions. 

Heaven, during his brief stop there, has no answers for him. The world has changed since he last roamed it on two human feet. There are fewer true believers, a distinct lessening in the numbers of the faithful. GIven that, he may need to remain where he’s been taken in, as there’s no guarantee of a swift replacement.

Despite the potential drawbacks, Castiel decides to stay in Jimmy Novak. An inward mental twitch draws his attention and he can feel a nameless emotion emanate from the shadow of Jimmy’s consciousness. It’s unfamiliar and not entirely pleasant, so he disregards it and turns his mind towards logistics. 

It will likely be best to allow Dean to seek him out this time, given what Heaven’s told him of the man’s nature. He has to be burningly curious, if not frantic, to know who and what brought him out of Hell, and for what reason. Castiel ignores the pull he feels, both in his grace and in his newly acquired form, and settles in to wait. 

*

It doesn’t take long. The summoning spell Dean and his compatriot perform is clumsy but effective, and in truth Castiel has been on high alert for any sign that his presence is needed, wanted. During the short time since he took the decision to stay in the vessel which Dean saw through the hole, and also decided not to approach, he’s castigated himself again and again for not having paid more attention to human customs regarding sexual activity. He suspects that in his ignorance he’s made a tremendous error, but he’s not completely sure where it lies.

He arrives, grace agitated, causing his wings to beat with too much force, the atmosphere around them overcharged with celestial intent. His foreboding combines with his intense relief that Dean has sought him out and makes him unbalanced. Blessedly, his soldier nature takes over. 

He lands, orients himself, and goes to unite the man and the mission.


	3. Good things do happen, Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean comes face to face with the entity that dragged him out of hell, and immediately wants to return there for the rest of eternity. It can't be the guy from the truck stop. It just can't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would just figure that the first chaptered work I've posted in a year or more is something I never intended to write, and that I'm totally winging as I go along. I can't tell you where this is going because I have no clue. Fingers crossed, I won't end up re-writing literally the ENTIRE CANON around a goddamned bj.

“You sure you got all those mirror shards off of you?” Bobby asks. “You were covered in them when I found you in that motel room.” 

Dean makes a gruff noise of dismissal. 

He doesn’t want to think about how he’d carefully brushed them off the first time, standing in the wreckage of the dingy room. He should have called Sam or Bobby, but suddenly he found himself sick of his life as a constant parade of supernatural bullshit. He’d thought “Fuck this,” and gone to get a drink like a normal person on a normal Friday night. One thing had led to another, and he’d ended up at the truck stop. 

And then Dean had… had done _that_ , and bad things happened again, as always. Then he woke back up in the motel room. Covered in broken mirror pieces again. He’d almost think it had been a dream, except his jaw is still sore. He has no idea how he got back to the motel room. The man had said his name. Had he said something else before he’d beat him up? Or whatever happened? 

He knows he should tell Bobby, he just _can’t_. Besides, Bobby is reciting the incantation. Dean can’t interrupt him now.

The scar on his shoulder hurts, has been hurting for hours. They have to find out what the price of getting him out of Hell is. They have to find whatever did this. 

The wind picks up and Dean starts to second-guess the wisdom of his plan. If this thing burned out Pamela’s eyes, what makes him think they’ll escape with their faces intact? He half-wishes they’d got some welding masks or, like, riot gear. Or both. 

He’s shooting as soon as the doors open, trying to aim without focusing on the shape approaching them. It’s man-sized, wearing clothes, wearing a… no, that can't be. There are sparks raining down from busted light bulbs, the flashing light and sudden shadows turning the room into a battlefield, impossible to see anything clearly. He keeps shooting and it keeps coming. It’s obvious the bullets are doing nothing to slow it down. 

Dean looks at Bobby and they mutually agree: change of plans. He grabs the knife and turns as the… man, oh fuck, it _is_ that guy. 

No way.

“Who are you?” he asks, circling as the dude from the truck stop follows him like a heat-seeking missile. Good, Bobby can get him while he's distracted, he thinks, grateful his hunting instincts haven’t been completely eclipsed by the blue eyes staring him down. 

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition,” the man says, sounding a little exasperated, like he’s repeating himself. And he is, Dean realizes, remembering what he'd heard before conking out. His stomach lurches as he plunges the knife in the man's body, and he does not think about where his mouth has been on that body, the sounds he coaxed from that mouth.

That mouth does not change shape as the knife sinks in. There is no shift in the expression on his face. No agony. No reaction.

Not a demon. 

And definitely not human. 

Awesome, now I’m a monsterfucker, Dean thinks. 

The man… monster… whatever, looks down at the knife stuck in his chest and then back up, tractor-beaming Dean’s gaze as he pulls it out and drops it to the floor, totally deadpan. Dean almost wants to applaud his showmanship. 

Bobby raises the crow bar and Dean slumps in relief, until the monster, clearly wearing some poor fucker’s meatsuit, blocks it without turning around. Showmanship his ass, this is pure grandstanding. Then he ups the ante by placing two fingers to Bobby’s forehead and woah, that’s some Spock-level shit right there. 

“We need to talk, Dean. Alone.”

Yeah, no. Dean remembers the last time they talked, alone. He can just guess what this thing is after.

An incubus. That’s what it’s gotta be. Stupid stuffed-shirt outfit aside, the thing has definitely chosen the right form to push Dean’s buttons, all of them, right down to his id and beyond. But it makes no sense, why would a… a _sex-monster_ rescue him from hell? He knows he’s adorable, legendary perky nipples and all, but this is friggin' ridiculous. If all he wants is his dick sucked, this whole thing is just… overkill.

Speaking of killing, Dean takes a good look at Bobby lying on the dusty floor and risks checking on him. If the incubus just wants to “talk,” then it probably doesn’t want to hurt him. He checks for a head-wound where it made contact with Bobby's forehead, and finding none, feels for a pulse.

“Your friend’s alive,” it says without looking over. It’s flipping through one of Bobby’s books, nonchalant as can be. What a douchebag. 

“Who are you?” Dean asks, dumbly repeating himself.

“Castiel,” Castiel replies, and uh, duh. Got that.

“Yeah, I figured that much. I mean, what are you?”

“I’m an angel of the Lord,” he says, so blandly self-important he may as well be saying he’s a VP of sales at the local tractor emporium. Nevertheless, the words have an enervating effect on Dean. 

He did not give a blow job to an angel. No. He did not. Not possible. 

His brain reminds him this is probably not the most sacrilegious thing he’s ever done, then hastens to point out that the thing has got to be lying. He stands, ready to fight. 

“Get the hell out of here. There’s no such thing.”

“This is your problem, Dean, you have no faith.” That smug look gets right under Dean's skin and also, can the jerk please stop using his fucking name? Then the thunder and lightning start up, shaking the barn walls. Dean will not look impressed. He will not. 

The lightning casts the shadows of enormous wings on the back wall of barn, obscuring the sloppy lines of the sigils and runes. The arrogant bastard of an… _angel_ , Dean concedes, fixes him with a stare and a godawful smirk on his male-model features. Dean wants to hit him. 

“Some angel you are,” Dean spits, quaking in his actual boots. “You burned out that poor woman’s eyes.” _You shoved your cock in my mouth like it was on fire and my mouth was a public fountain_ , he doesn’t say. Doesn’t even think. 

“I warned her not to spy on my true form,” he says, condescendingly. “It can be… overwhelming to humans. So can my real voice. You already knew that.” 

“The gas station and the motel. That was you talking?” Castiel nods. “Buddy, next time, lower the volume.” 

Dean stamps down hard on the intrusive memory of the soft noises of pleasure that came from the other side of the wall, the quiet gasps and how they'd echoed faintly.

“It was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong.” 

In spite of himself, Dean instinctively bristles. Seriously, _fuck_ this guy. 

“And what visage are you in now, huh?” _What visage did you put on to slum it in a god damned glory hole, you celestial pervert?_ “What? Holy tax accountant?” 

“This? This is a… a vessel.”

Oh christ. Of course.

“You’re possessing some poor bastard?” Some unreasonably hot bastard that Dean could have maybe hooked up with for real without needing to take a Silkwood shower afterwards. Guess that ship has sailed, he thinks bitterly.

“He’s a devout man. He actually prayed for this.”

Dean almost laughs at the thought of some bible-thumper getting saddled with a horny angel. It's a joke. It has to be.

“Pal, I’m not buying what you’re selling, so who are you really?”

“I told you.”

“Right. And why would an angel-” _get his dick sucked in a truck stop by a… a…_ “Rescue me from hell?” 

“Good things do happen, Dean.” 

“Not in my experience.” No, in his experience, the hottest guy that Dean's sucked off in years turns out to be Birdman with a nasty stalking habit. 

“What’s the matter?" Castiel pauses, seemingly for the purpose of staring directly into Dean's soul. "You don’t think you deserved to be saved.”

It’s not a question. 

He tilts his head, his innocently inquiring expression reminding Dean that this person isn't a person. He isn't from around here. 

Dean's self-soothing sarcastic inner monologue goes silent. 

For the space of an eternal awkward pause, Dean considers the facts. He didn't deserve to be saved. 

Because this guy. This angel. It …. He… doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what Dean did. He doesn’t know what it was - that it was bad. It was bad, a bad thing to do, dirty and filthy and wrong, a defilement, and this naive fool doesn’t even know. Dean urgently wants to be dragged to hell all over again. 

“Why’d you do it?” He doesn't want to hear the answer. But he has to know.

“Because God commanded it.”

Oh, great. Oh, just fucking peachy. _Now_ there’s a God and Dean’s just… this just keeps getting better and better.

“Because we have work for you.”

Then, because the thing...angel… Castiel, whatever, hasn't been enough of a drama queen, there's the sound of huge wings flapping and he's gone.

Dean spends the next hour waiting for Bobby to wake up, trying not to think about what kind of work God and his heavenly host have for a piece of shit like him.


End file.
